The Vault
by SomewhereApart
Summary: A long, long time ago, I promised to write Robin and Regina's encounter in the vault. And so I finally have.


It was the thought of losing her forever that had done it.

The way she'd told him he had to forget her, to stop loving her, to find a way to let her go if he wanted Marian to live.

It had been akin to someone asking him to simply stop breathing.

He'd convinced himself, this last little while, ever since Marian had returned and he'd done what he'd thought had been the right thing, the honorable thing – he'd convinced himself ever since that he could be without her. That he could love her quietly, privately, keep her in his heart and rebuild a life with Marian, and perhaps Regina would move on and find love of her own, and he would suffer for watching it but be glad for her. Grateful she was being cared for even if he knew he'd be terribly jealous of whatever man was still allowed to touch her when he was no longer.

He'd convinced himself he could live his life without having her, but without loving her?

The very idea had him utterly lost. How could one simply turn off their heart, douse the fire that a certain someone had ignited in their bones, let it go entirely and move on? How could he keep away from Regina, in all her warm, breathing, vibrant immediacy and foster enough love in his heart for the frozen form of Marian to love her truly, love her fully enough to save her?

It had been that on his mind as he downed whiskey after whiskey at Granny's, his famed aim doing him no favors as he shot small steel-tipped darts at the board across the wall. And then Will. Will Scarlet of all people had been the one to talk sense into him, to make him see that a life with honor but no love was no life at all. A life spent quietly pining for another while putting on a farce with Marian would be a false life, and what kind of example would that be to Roland?

No, there was a better way.

There was love, a love worth throwing away his whole honorable life for, and perhaps being true to one you love so fully is an honor of its own kind.

It's that he tells himself as he makes his way to Regina's vault again, even though she has bid him stay away.

He can't.

Cannot.

Not for another day, not another minute, not now that he's realized he doesn't give a good goddamn about honor and the code today. Not now, not in the face of the loss of her.

There is a part of him, long-trained to chose honor above all, that bites at the tether he's strapped it with, that tells him throwing himself away for her will end badly, but he tells himself he's not throwing himself away at all. Not truly. He's not. He's simply loving her, changing, redefining himself. He'd done so for Marian, had learned honor and goodness from her, and from Regina he will learn forgiveness and fierce devotion and fiery passion.

She is weary when he arrives, weary to see him, weary to have to do this dance again - the one where she denies herself for the sake of the honor he's chosen over her (and how can she ever doubt her own goodness, he wonders, when she has spent days, weeks, acting out of love for him and thwarting her own self and her own heart at every turn?). But he is determined, he is determined that she know what he knows now - that he has strived for a life of honor above all, of doing the right thing for the right reasons day in and day out, and today he doesn't give a damn about that. Today he just wants her.

She hears his words, but doesn't seem to believe them. Listens, and frowns, and now that he's here, now that he's seen her, now that he knows she is what he wants today, tonight, forever, above honor and all else, he wants simply to serve his own heart again for once – now that he knows that, he cannot keep himself from her.

He swoops in and kisses her, hands on her cheeks, fingers slipping into her hair, clutching at her as his lips crash against hers. The contact zings like electricity, settles something inside of him that has felt off-kilter and foreign since the day he sat upon the sofa in her office and brought her to tears by denying her, by leaving her. This is more than a simple kiss; this is coming home, and it is desperate and glorious. But he remembers her, he knows her, knows hers has been a life of people taking where she's not truly desiring to give, so he gentles his hands against her, lets his thumbs skim her cheekbones, her skin warm and smooth and soft under his touch. He holds more than grabs, leaves her free to lean in or pull back. The choice is hers to make. Her hands rise at his shoulders, hovering, to pull him closer or push him away, he doesn't know but he can feel them there, can sense her indecision.

And then she melts, gives in to him, leans into this and he is grasping at her again, tugging her to her feet and letting the momentum rock them back and forth as he deepens the kiss, tastes the sweet spice of her mouth with his tongue, buries his fingers into the silk of her dark hair (he loves her hair, oh how he loves it, has loved it to distraction even since the forest, could write sonnets to those lovely, inky locks and the way they wave and curl and weave through his fingertips). She is pressed to him, shoulders to knees, warm and alive and vibrant and _Regina_, and Robin has never been more sure of his decision than he is right now, when her every breath presses into his chest and belly, mingles with his own in the scant centimeters of space between their lips when they break apart and come back together again.

They end up stumbling backward; he sits down hard onto the trunk she'd been seated on before. She stays standing for a moment, and it is too much space between them, too far, he is a man dying of thirst and she is the last cool spring in an endless desert and he will not be parted from her. He draws her back in, skims his palms down the backs of her thighs when she climbs atop him, runs them back up and rucks her dress up until she can tuck herself right in against where he's hard and aching for her already.

She lets out a small eager sound in her throat as they press and grind together, and Robin echoes it as he leans in and covers her neck in warm kisses. He tastes her with his tongue, nips her gently with his teeth, does all the things he learned in their short while together could make her gasp and sigh, and gods above, how he's missed that sound. Her breathy little moan into his ear at the scrape of his teeth over her pulse, the way her fingers clutch at his shoulders when he sucks at the delicate skin beneath her jaw, her head tipping back to accomodate. Her hands push at his vest, shove it off and to the ground behind them, then grip and tug at his shirts, loosening them from his trousers.

One of Robin's hands has stilled at her hip, gripping and kneading, feeling the slow, lazy pace she uses to grind herself atop him, her skin flushed and warm under his mouth already. The fingers of his other hand coast over her dress, seeking, searching, looking for… there. He finds the zipper, grasps at it and tugs it down a few inches before dropping his head to her shoulder with a soft groan.

He wants her, desperately, has wanted her since the forest, has wanted to strip her down to skin and learn every dip and curve, kiss every freckle and scar, make her writhe and come and cry out. Wants to feel her wrapped around him, wants to drown in her.

But he doesn't want to _take_ her, she's had enough of that. The last time they'd been in a position like this, when they'd met in front of her fire and drunk wine and largely ignored their spread of fruit and cheese in favor of sampling each other with warm, soft kisses and wandering, eager hands, she'd made a quiet, almost shy admission – that she'd never been with anyone she was certainly truly wanted to be with _her._ She'd had sex, but no intimacy, he'd realized, and it was that realization that had had him slowing their pace, had had him assuring her that later, another time, when they had a soft mattress and all the time in the world, he'd take her to bed when they could truly savor every bit of it. They'd touched, and they'd kissed, and he'd ended up with a hand beneath her dress, rubbing her lazily to peak until she was gasping and trembling in his arms. But no more than that.

He'd made good on his vow, and he wants to keep it even now. Wants to do right by her, wants more for her than a quick, fervent fuck in a crypt no matter how badly he is presently aching for her. And so he forces himself to pause, lifts his head to meet her eyes, lifts his hands to push her hair back from her face, to weave into her lush locks and tangle there loosely.

Regina is pink-cheeked and bright-eyed, her breath a bit deep and quick, and he's struck once more by how unbearably beautiful she is. She frowns, a pretty pout on those lovely lips, a question in her eyes.

"I want you," he tells her softly, boldly, not bothering to mince words about it. "All of you."

But it has her pulling back slightly, glancing down to where her fingers are gripping the strap for his quiver, slung needlessly across his chest. Her voice is soft, defeated, cracking his heart in two when she questions, "But?"

She's expecting him to stop, he realizes. To back out of this. To wound her with rejection once again.

Robin firms his grip on her hair, not enough to pull, just enough that he can urge her head up slightly, can coax her into flicking her gaze back up to his. Then he looks her square in those lovely dark eyes (uneasy now, attempting to be guarded but failing miserably - he sees right through her as always), and says to her, "But it's up to you. You know how I feel, what I want. Now the choice is yours, milady."

She warms at that, a small smile finding her lips, tugging the corners up and he wants to make it happen again and again. Has caused her more than enough tears for a whole lifetime, and wants to do nothing but make her smile again and again from tonight onward (it's unrealistic, he knows that; theirs will be a messy path no matter what, but for tonight, he chooses to believe whatever he wants, and what he wants to believe is that he will have endless opportunities to coax that smile out of her, now and in the days to come).

She lets out something that is half exhale, half-chuckle, her smile sharpening into a smirk, her eyes suddenly playful, teasing. "Have I been giving mixed signals?" she asks. "Because I thought I was being fairly clear."

Robin smiles and moves his arms to her waist, wrapping them snugly around her and holding her close against him, giving a pleasant grunt as he hugs her tightly for a moment, then leans in to press kisses along her throat again. "You were," he assures against her skin, pleased when she shivers. "But I wanted to be sure."

"Seems you haven't abandoned your honor after all," she breathes, ending on a sharp inhale when he nips at her. She's fiddling with the fastening of his strap now, loosening that, too, and letting it fall with a dull thunk to the stone floor below.

"My chivalry remains," he chuckles into the join of her neck and shoulder, hands wandering her body again, coasting the planes and curves, finding that zipper again and drawing it down, down, down.

Regina arches under the attention of his hands, and sighs when one hand steals beneath her dress to caress bare skin. It is a lovely, glorious sound, another thing he wants to draw out of her again and again. Soft sighs and sweet smiles, that's what she's made for - the things so long denied her by fate, or circumstance, cruel manipulation or neglect. He wants all those things for her, the soft things, the kind things. And the other things, too - the passion, the heat, the sweat and spit and sex.

And she's given him the go-ahead, so go ahead he shall.

Her dress is pulled down from her shoulders, now little more than a rumpled band of material around her hips, and Robin cannot help a groan at what he finds underneath. Silk and lace, more sultry red, artfully displaying those breasts that so tortured him from the cages of corsets and surly temper for months on end. His chivalry is fading a bit, enough for him to take what he wants now, what he's always wanted. He scoops an arms under her rear, lifts her up onto her knees so he can bury his face amidst the soft swells, suck kisses over the warm silk of her skin, trail his tongue along the edge of lace.

His name is a whisper on her lips, appreciative and breathless, and she moans when he brings a hand to cup her through the thin material, and then again, louder, when he rubs his thumb over the stiffened peak of her breast. When he ducks his head down to bite gently at the other lace-covered nipple, she _ah!_s, and hisses, and clutches him to her with a hand in his hair. He does it again, again, and her hips lurch into his belly, her hands moving to tug at his clothing again until he is naked to the waist as well, shirt and undershirt discarded in a heap somewhere vaguely near his vest. When he draws the lace covering her breast aside and finally swirls his tongue against her bare peak, she whines softly, arches into him, breathes, "God, Robin…"

He licks again and she _writhes_, grinds into him, scrapes her nails against his shoulder. She's sensitive here, he discovers – more than he'd realized the last time he'd touched her, it seems, and Robin feels a ripple of heat and anticipation at the little revelation. Oh, how he'll enjoy taking advantage of this…

He drags the lace away from her other breast, considers removing her undergarments entirely, but he rather likes the way this one has her held up for him, the ease with which he can now move from breast to breast without the need of his hands to cup her. Instead, he braces one hand between her shoulder blades and trails the other along her ribs as he sucks at one stiff peak and then the other, quick, light pulls, back and forth. When she moans his name again, her voice trembles slightly, and her fingers are clutching at the back of his neck.

She presses into his belly again, gasps, "I need– I can't–"

The hand he has against her ribs moves to her hip, guides her down until she's snug against his cock again, and the noise that escapes her lips sounds something like relief. She rocks and grinds, and he murmurs for her lean back, he's got her, and then her fingers are locked against his nape, her weight pressing more firmly into the hand at her back as he starts to suck harder, to take more time with each breast in turn.

He lingers, enjoys, tells himself not to rush, they have all night, he will take his time with her this first time, before he slakes his desperate thirst for her. Regina grows ever more frantic, her hands tightening and releasing against his neck, her back arching and relaxing, her hips moving steadily (he can't focus on that, cannot focus on the firm, rhythmic friction against his cock or this will all be over too quickly), head dropping back as more and more pleasured sounds spill from her lips. He has a desperate need to kiss her again, to feel those lips against his own, swallow her eager moans, but her need is greater, he thinks, and he rather enjoys the way she's going to putty in his hands. Rather enjoys undoing her with something so simple as the way his tongue is now flicking against her spit-slicked, stiff peak.

Her fingers splay and clutch and splay again, and she makes that soft whining sound again, quakes his name and a soft plea for more. Robin's hand slides up from her hip, fingertips raking along her belly, her ribs, until he can grasp her free nipple and tug and squeeze. She jerks and lifts her head up again, grasps at the short hairs above his nape, letting out a shaky, drawn out noise.

He's having a hard time ignoring the fervent grind of her hips now, is more and more aroused by the way she's responding to him, the way she sounds, the way she feels, the way she is coming apart at how he's teasing both breasts at once. When she cries out and scrabbles her fingers along his shoulders again, pushes and pushes her hips against him, he loses the battle against his need for her mouth and straightens up, pulling her with him, taking her mouth in a heated kiss as his hand slides from her back to her front.

Robin has both hands at her breasts now, rolling her nipples in a way that has her grasping at his head and kissing him harder, her tongue in his mouth, her teeth nipping at his lip, her hips lurching and grinding, and she's gasping, gasping, tipping her head back and _moaning_, and rocking against him, and it's too much simply, too much. He has to drop his hands to her hips and push her away from him – a maneuver she is none too pleased with, if the bereft cry of disappointment she lets out is any indication.

Not one to deny her pleasure, he's quick to slip his hand between her thighs and rub against the silk there. It's damp – practically sodden, and gods, he wants her, wants to bury himself inside her and thrust and thrust and sate them both, but he also wants to taste her, to make her come on his tongue, to let her ride him into oblivion, to press her up against the nearest wall and take and take until they're both sweaty and sore and breathless. With her, he wants everything and all at once, but above all, he wants to give her the intimacy she's been so starved for, and so he will rein himself in for a moment, he will wait on his own pleasure – for now. For her.

Or he would if she would have it, but she is shaking her head and tugging his hand back up to her breast, and reaching for the fastenings of his too-tight trousers.

"I need you," she breathes, and, "Right now."

And she is so lovely, so flushed, and tousled, and glowing in the candlelight that he finds he cannot resist her, cannot deny her, but he wants…

He lifts his hips to help her ruck his pants back to his knees and then her hands (so soft and so warm) are on his cock and he's letting out a shaky breath because he is closer, far closer than even he had realized.

"I wanted to taste you first," he manages as she adjusts herself, lifts up and yanks her underthings to the side.

"After," she sighs, and her sex brushes against the tip of him, warm and slick and oh gods… After sounds fine…

Robin nods, and she sinks down, atop him, around him, and it is bliss, heaven, strips his mind of every thought except _yes_ and _Regina_. They moan in tandem at the feeling of finally after all this time being together, and he brings his arms around her, presses her flush to him and kisses her deeply, tangling fingers in her hair again. She begins to rock almost immediately, and Robin buries his face into her neck and moans softly at the feel of her sliding over him.

He has the fleeting thought that she smells amazing, like cinnamon and some kind of rich perfume. He breathes her in, savors the way she assaults his senses - the smell of her in his nose, the warmth of her thighs sliding against his hips as she moves, the salt of her neck as he swirls his tongue there again, the sound of her gasping moans in his ear, gods, she is perfection. She is every fantasy he's had of her and more, and how could he ever have thought a life without her at his fingertips was possible?

"I was such a fool," he mutters, lifting his head to ghost kisses along her jaw. "Forgive me."

She shushes him, then covers his mouth with her own, kisses deeply and rides him harder, taking him in deeper strokes. The edge of her underthings drags against him with every pass, and though the material is soft, the elastic trimming is less so, and it creates a much less welcome friction than her snug wetness. Robin reaches down, tries to worm his fingers in between them to hold the silk aside, but it forces Regina to shift the angle of her hips slightly, costs her the friction she'd been generating with each downward grind against him, and she scowls against his mouth, breaks their kiss and waves her hand.

There's a swirl of purple around her and it clears to find her bare, completely, free of the hindrance of her half-stripped clothes. Robin swallows hard at the sight of her, bare breasts and toned belly, curved hips and shapely thighs. He grips her waist lightly to still her while he takes her in, shaking his head slightly in disbelief that this lovely creature is actually his to touch and to have.

"You are a marvel," he breathes, awed, and the smile she gives him in response is a new one, private and coy, her head ducking slightly. Vulnerable, he thinks, and she is, he supposes, as is he. Open and naked and joined together, the grasping, rising clutch of arousal giving way for a moment to simple admiration of each other. Her tongue slips out to wet her lower lip, then disappears back into her mouth as her teeth catch the kiss-swollen softness. She breathes in and then out, and then murmurs a soft _Thank you._

"None required," he assures - it is he who should be thanking her, for allowing him this after he'd so grievously wounded her precious heart. The one she'd entrusted to him, and he'd lost and then broken. He's plagued with another stab of sharp guilt, and cannot help the frown that tips his lips down. He looks at her again, studies her torso, the warm glow of her skin in the candlelight. He releases her hips to let his hands roam freely again, down to squeeze her rear, then up to stroke along her spine.

Regina begins to move again with a sigh, her gaze on his as she slides slickly against him. Robin lets out an appreciative groan at the feel of her, and she smirks, chuckles breathily, moves faster. "Good?" she gasps, and he nods and moans an eager affirmative.

"Amazing," he insists, as he feels the tightening heat of pleasure churning low inside him.

Regina grins and reaches back for his hands, guiding them forward, around, up, until they're cupping her breasts again. Her eyes are open and wanting, and though she says nothing, simply presses her lips together and stifles a low moan, he doesn't need any more coaxing to know what it is she wants from him. He kneads the soft swells lightly, then flicks both thumbs across stiffened peaks. Regina's breath catches and she nods, her hips swirling over him, grinding more than thrusting, and thank the gods for it, because he can handle that a bit better than the steady pitch and rock of her over him.

Robin smiles at her, catches her nipples in his grasp and gives each a gentle, twisting tug.

Regina's head drops back on a moan, and he grins, does it harder. "Is this what you like, milady?" he asks, already knowing the answer.

"Yes," she hisses, rutting more quickly against him. Robin lets out a shuddering breath at the new pace and pressure; he's not sure how much longer he can keep this up if she continues like _that_. So he tugs harder, twists more sharply, urging her along, but this time she gives a sharp, wincing inhale, lets out a soft grunt.

Robin eases off, strokes her with his thumbs. "Too much?"

Regina nods and covers his hands with hers again, bites her lip as she squeezes his fingers against her. Then she lets out a shaky moan and sucks in a breath, and Robin _oh_s and keeps the pressure steady where she's left it as her fingers drop down to his wrists. He rolls and tugs, and she trembles, her jaw dropping open, hips jerking and jutting against his again and again.

"Oh, there she is," he murmurs slyly as he watches Regina's cheeks flush pink, watches the quiver in her jaw as she gasps and moans. "That's it," he urges, his own voice a bit unsteady, "Take what you need, my love."

Her eyes snap to his at that, her gaze suddenly bright as she pauses for a moment, then crashes her mouth to his and begins to fuck against him harder, faster, taking him in and out in harsh, greedy passes, and oh god, he is drowning now, pulled under by her sudden fervor. He wants to grasp at her hips, wants to wrap his arms around her and hold her to him, guide her down against him, push up harder into her, but she is crying out into his mouth with every continued tug against her breasts, and knows, he knows, this is what she needs, what she wants, what is driving her to the brink and dragging him along with her. She rips her mouth from his, her head tipping back on a cry as she rides, rides, her hands grasping at his shoulder blades as she lets out cries of _yes_ and _more_ and _oh _and _Robin!_

He buries his head in her shoulder again and groans and grunts, gods, she's so wet and snug and fierce above him, is drawing him to the end of his tether, is stoking the embers in his belly as she churns her hips harder, faster, and then her nails are biting into his shoulders, her mouth spilling the most glorious sounds, and he lifts his head to watch her hit her peak, to watch her come apart, her face screwed up with ecstasy.

He lets go of her breasts to grasp her hips, to steady her rhythm and help prolong her bliss, and she cries out again, this time _yes!_ and _oh, please!_, clutching him close to her, her sweat-slicked skin sliding along his and, suddenly his own pleasure is acute, intense - he'd meant to pull out, to spill on her belly or into his own hand (because accepting him back into her arms is not the same as accepting him deep into her belly; he's no idea if this encounter could lead to a child for her), but orgasm comes swiftly, and he is cursing, clutching at her, yanked down over the edge with a sudden low punch of ecstasy he cannot hold back. He feels the rush of it, groans in relief as he empties himself into her, and then they go still.

Her breath is heavy and quick, and she goes soft against him, sits back into her hips, into his hold. He smiles at her, and she smiles back, chuckles softly and drops her brow to his, their noses bumping affectionately.

"That was…"

"Wonderful," he murmurs, stealing a soft kiss from her lips as she nods.

And then she shifts slightly, and grimaces, makes a soft sound of displeasure.

"Are you alright?" Robin questions, lifting his fingers to brush dark locks back behind her ear.

"Knees," she admits with a sheepish smile, and she doesn't need to say anymore. The trunk is hard and unyielding beneath them, would be murder on anyone who rocked and rutted the way she had.

Robin skims his hands back, down her thighs, caresses what he can reach of those sore knees and asks, "Is there perhaps somewhere softer we can move to?" His hands slide back toward her hips, wrap around them and hold her snugly as he informs her matter-of-factly, "I'm not done with you yet."

She grins, and it's like the sun, like air, and then she arcs one teasing brow, and asks, "Oh?"

"Mm," he confirms, letting one hand roam down to caress the curve of her rear, the join of her thigh. "I do believe I was promised a taste."

She tilts her head, gives a light, sympathetic grimace and points out, "That was before you made a mess of things down there."

Robin chuckles warmly and leans in, nips at her lower lip, and then murmurs, "You let me worry about that, milady."

She licks where he's bitten, then nods softly, and they share one more heady, tongue-filled kiss, hands finding each other and linking before she lifts up onto her knees, and breaks the kiss, wincing as she stands. He keeps hold of one of her hands, takes a moment to appreciate her nude form again, now sweat-sheened and flecked with gooseflesh in places, but every bit as beautiful as it was before.

"You," he says, "are a goddess."

There's that smile again, the flirtatious, wide one he's sure is for him and him only, and he cannot help but echo it with a grin of his own.

"You are," he insists. "One I intend to kneel before and worship madly."

She laughs then, a giddy, wonderful thing, and then she's tugging his hand, drawing him to his feet and pressing up against him. "And here I thought a thief like you would be here to plunder my temple."

Robin grins, cannot resist teasing back in kind. He leans in close, brushes her hair behind her ear and whispers into it, "After."

It is another of her rich laughs that he follows as she leads him further into the crypt, through a door hidden behind a mirror, to a room where she conjures a wide, soft bed for them. And there he makes good on his every promise, until they're both well-fucked and weak-limbed, sated and sleepy. He falls asleep with her tucked against his side, certain that she is exactly where he needs to be. That this is right. That he is hers, completely, down to his very bones.


End file.
